And Leave the World Unseen
by Mya Stone
Summary: Sherlock has to keep his distance to John. John is miserable and depressed. Post-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

He pulled up his collar to protect himself from the bitingly cold wind. From where he was standing he could see the hunched over, dismal figure of John Watson looking down at the gravestone in melancholy. Hands buried deeply in his pocket, head hung low, John looked worse than he had ever seen him; having lost at least ten pounds in the last few months he seemed frail and vulnerable and for a second Sherlock feared that the strong wind might blow him over.

He watched as John lightly touched the edge of the gravestone and left. Even from a distance, Sherlock could make out the pain written so plainly across John's features. His face had a dark, brooding quality to it these days, so unlike his usual good-natured and cheerful expression.

Keeping his face blank, Sherlock stood there watching John's figure disappear in the distance and once more felt the full extent of his actions. Of all the things he'd done in his life, of all the mistakes he'd made, hurting John seemed to be the worst. Because for once in his life, Sherlock actually cared.

A few brisk paces brought him to the exact spot John had stood just moments before, Sherlock could still feel his presence, the scent of his cologne still lingered faintly in the air. Sherlock closed his eyes and for a moment and for just one second John was right there next to him, smiling sheepishly the way he always did.

Opening his eyes but still careful to keep his mien cold and untouched although there was nobody to see him, Sherlock turned on his heel and walked away in the opposite direction John had, out back exit of the cemetery.

Walking at a brisk pace he made his way through small, barely used roads and alleys to his new residence in the upper story of a hair salon whose only use was to launder money for the owner's drug commerce judging by its opening hours, clientele and general appearance. Sherlock was fine with that. The man minded his own business, never asked any questions and didn't complain as long as Sherlock paid his rent in due time.

He entered his apartment over the external spiral staircase leading up to a small rusty door that was flaking blue paint.

His new home barely deserved the name; bleak grey concrete walls, one room containing a crammed-in kitchen (which was really just a mini-fridge, a microwave and a counter), a moldy mattress on the floor and a shabby, old sofa that squeaked noisily whenever someone sat down on it, and a floor covered by an ugly, yellowish rug. There was also a bathroom, barely big enough to turn around in it. The water from the tab was foul-smelling at the best of times and brown goo at the worst.

Sherlock didn't mind. It was not nearly as nice as the apartment he had shared with John but then he had never really cared much about his surroundings. The room was a mess; clothes, books, newspapers, basically all his possessions lay scattered on the floor. He hadn't had the opportunity to pack a lot of his things in before his staged suicide, besides, if he had brought too much of his stuff, John would have noticed something was up. John…

Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him as he was used to doing, impatiently yanked off his coat and threw himself on the sofa, hands folded under his chin. He could not bear this any longer. Watching John suffer, day after day. Watching him getting worse by the hour. But there was nothing he could do. For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes had to stand by and watch as things took their course. Oh, how he loathed it.

The worst part was the boredom. Sherlock was no stranger to solitude and isolation but being forced to keep his head down and do nothing all day was really starting to get under his skin. And then there was this…feeling of sorts that had been irking Sherlock and which he could not quite describe.

The former consulting detective decided not to think about it anymore. His sentiment, or what little of it he possessed, was one of the few things he actually did not enjoy analyzing.


	2. Chapter 2

As usual, John was woken by his sister Harry noisily preparing tea in the kitchen. "Morning, John", she said, rushing past him out the door while John was sitting up on the sofa and throwing back his blanket.

Being seemingly unable to do anything else than lying around on his sister's sofa and thinking about Sherlock, John sometimes forgot that other people still had lives, duties, jobs… _When did I become the damaged one_? he thought.

For weeks now, John had been looking for a new apartment. Not that he was making much of an effort. He really only looked over the advertisements in the newspaper because Harry wanted him to.

He couldn't find anything cheap enough to afford on his own but he knew he couldn't sleep on his sister's couch forever. Already he felt like such a burden, although Harry didn't exactly say it. The problem was just…John was scared of living on his own; scared he might go completely mad. But then, his psychological condition couldn't really get much worse.

Pushing himself up from the sofa, John grabbed his walking-cane and groggily stumbled into the bathroom. His leg had begun to hurt again- more than it ever had, actually- after Sherlock's….departure. His psychologist said it was only normal; that, since the pain was psychosomatic it might return, triggered by a traumatic experience. But then, John didn't really believe half of what that psychologist ever told him. Most of the time she just tried to make him say…things. All the things he had "left unsaid".

John would have quit his sessions but he knew he needed them. Besides, Harry wanted him to go and Harry was pretty much all John had at this moment.

Leaning on the sink, John looked at the dismal image of himself in the mirror. His face looked grey, his eyes sunken, there were deep creases on his brow and his sand-coloured hair was standing off his head in all directions.

His day went by in a slow daze, as usual. Getting up, brushing his teeth, thinking of Sherlock, lunch, thinking of Sherlock, supper, Sherlock. He tried to think of other things but before long he always, _always _seemed to return to the same _bloody_ subject.

Harry returned at around seven in the evening, John was sitting on the sofa, curled up in a thick blanket. The entire day he had stayed in his striped blue pyjamas, barefoot.

"Hello, John" Harry said in a cheerful manner. John gave a grunt in answer. "Have you been doing anything today?" When John didn't answer, she looked him straight into the eye, "Ok. That's it, John, I want you out of here. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't want you here. You're my brother and I love you and you know that but I can't let you sit here day after day, slowly but surely ruining yourself. One of these days you're going to have to GET OFF YOUR ASS AND MOVE ON WITH YOUR FUCKING LIFE!" Harry was yelling now.

John just stared at her in surprise. A bit calmer, she continued: „Now, I understand it sucks, John. But at some point you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself, accept what happened and just get back out there, get a flat, get a job…get your life back together. And you're not going to do that so long as I provide you with a bed…of sorts. I'm doing this to help. I know it really doesn't seem that way right now but maybe someday you'll understand. So that's it. I want you out of here by tomorrow night."

For some instants John just stared at her in disbelief. Feeling weak, he got up from the couch.

"Of course. I get it. I'll get out of here first thing tomorrow morning." He tried to sound strong and composed but the sentence came out as a weak, scared whimper.

"I'm sorry, John." She pulled him into a quick hug and disappeared in her room.

John fell back into the couch, moaning almost inaudibly and covering his face with his hands.

xxxx

Sherlock's days seemed endless. All he ever seemed to do was to get up in the morning, entertain himself with his thoughts all day, and go to bed at night. Sleeping. Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world was actually getting a healthy amount of sleep. That didn't aid his mental health though. On the contrary, it was starting to drive him mad. The boredom, the silence; the fact that nobody even knew he existed at this point. He felt his mind deteriorate with every second of lethargy. It was just so frustrating.

Wearing nothing but his dressing gown, Sherlock got up from the sofa he'd been lying on all day and started pacing up and down, measuring the very limited space of his apartment with long strides like an encaged animal.

_I need something. Something to do._

Angrily, he stopped right in front of the wall. "I need something to DO!" Sherlock screamed the last word and thrust his fist into the wall in front of him, causing nothing but a dull _thud_ and a throbbing pain in his knuckles.

Panting, he threw off his dressing gown and got dressed. Black trousers, white shirt, coat. He was already out the door when he turned around, grabbed his blue scarf and tied it around his neck.

Stepping out into the brisk night air, Sherlock instantly felt calmer, though still bursting with energy. He needed something to channel his thoughts on and he hoped that the ever active streets of London might provide him with such a distraction, something to keep him from pondering on John, on Molly, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. On the life he'd lost.

There was this saying that you never know what you have until it's gone. Sherlock had known exactly what he'd had. He'd just never thought he'd lose it.

Shaking his head as if to dishevel the trains of thought that had started to form inside, Sherlock made his way through the streets of London; roaming the city without a specific goal in mind.

An outside observer would have described his countenance as stern and indifferent, bored almost but deep inside, Sherlock was burning for action.

This was it. He had promised he would leave. Although he reckoned he could get Harry to reconsider… No. She was right. He had to get back on his feet. But how, though? Where would he go? What would he do? He couldn't get a job, couldn't go back to living like an ordinary person. Not after the life he'd seen with Sherlock, teeming with excitement and thrill, no day alike another. How could he possibly go back to being…ordinary, normal?

The problem at hand, though, was that he had no idea where he'd spend the night. John didn't have friends- no close friends, anyway- and no money. Mrs Hudson probably wouldn't mind him sleeping in the apartment for a couple of nights but John knew he couldn't possibly go back there.

Harry had left for work and wouldn't be home until late that night so that gave him some time to think but at this point John just felt completely and utterly helpless.

Three hours and just as many cups of tea later, John had packed all of his things and made a resolution.


	3. Chapter 3

He was well aware of the risk he was taking but he knocked on the door nonetheless. _Knock, knock…_Nothing._ KNOCK, KNOCK._ There were feet to be heard scuffling over the floor. The words "soft fleece slippers, not new but barely used" crossed his mind.

He could feel her presence on the other side of the door, hear her shallow, slightly scared breathing and a mental image of her face flashed up in his mind: startled, fearful and… apprehensive maybe? That was only natural, given the circumstances.

For a moment he almost thought she wouldn't open but on the other side of the door a resolution was made, a deep breath taken…and Molly Hooper opened the door to her flat just wide enough to peer outside into the gloomy hallway.

Her hair was tousled; she was wearing a black tank top and grey pyjama pants plus the slippers he had assumed would clad her feet. When she managed to make out the face that was staring down at her from the barely-lit outside, she had to swallow hard and clench her jaw, the way she often did, making the tendons on her neck very apparent.

"Sh-…Sherlock?!" was all she had time to whisper, still groggy from being torn from her bed in the middle of the night, before he rushed past her into her apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Hello, Molly. How are you on this lovely Wednesday night-or is it Friday, I don't know, it's so hard to keep track of these tedious little trivialities- where was I?" At this moment he interrupted the flow of words that was streaming from his mouth, way too fast as always, and turned around to look at Molly with eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Um…I think you were asking me how I-"

"Ah yes, your current emotional condition. Why am I even asking, I know how you are-not so well apparently. But why?- A date. You were on a date, a lawyer presumably, or a banker? Some important person- at least he thinks he is. Didn't go well, did it? But then, I guess that is barely surprising given your self-conscious awkwardness and the fact that he's interested in someone a _lot _younger- no offence. …Tea?"

While delivering his little speech he had been darting through the minuscule apartment, picking up small objects, sniffing pillows, looking under the sofa. A quite animalistic sense inside him seemed to take over in situations like these that allowed him to take in ever last little detail of the place. In just a few seconds he had learned what little he had not known of Molly's life before.

Molly, in turn, looked like she was going to faint. Increased heart and breathing rate, pale face, blushing neck. However from previous experience, Sherlock judged it best to ignore her obviously bewilderment and raised his eyebrows expectantly. "_Tea_?" he asked again.

"Oh, sure…yes, of course, I'm sorry" Molly murmured, as she scuttled past him into the kitchen, shaking her head confusedly and avoiding eye contact as she was in the habit of doing.

As the corners of his mouth curled upwards in a slight smirk, Sherlock threw back his coat, let himself fall into the sofa and crossed his legs.

xxxx

It felt wrong. He didn't know why or what it was that made him feel that way but something about this just felt…amiss. Maybe he was just finally going entirely mad. It wouldn't be surprising. It's not easy being all alone in the world. Before at least he had Harry, Harry his damaged sister, Harry the former alcoholic, Harry who just recently got divorced. But somehow she still seemed to be in a better psychological state than John.

He shook his head. _You've got to stop thinking about this. _John hadn't talked to his sister since she'd thrown him out. Not because he was angry, he wasn't – she had a point, but because he was too proud to call her up and make her think he couldn't manage a couple of days without her.

But the truth was- he couldn't. He needed someone, just _somebody_ to talk to. Somebody who cared. And above all, he needed a place to spend the night. He couldn't find a reasonably cheap flat on such short notice and he was missing the money to stay in a hotel.

There were three people he could think of. Mrs Hudson was out of the question- just the thought of going back to Baker Street was sufficient to wind John's gut up in a knot and pierce a knife through it. One down, two to go- number two being Lestrade. John had thought about it. But he didn't think he could sleep at Lestrade's place. Not even for a couple of nights until he found his own place. It would be too…awkward. That left the last person on his list-Molly.

It still didn't feel right, though. Standing in the dark, John hesitated. He should not have come in the middle of the night. Any normal person would be in bed by this hour. However, John had grown used to unusual sleeping cycles when he was living with…_Stop it. Just stop it and knock on the bloody door._

It was at this point he heard voices from inside. Voices…and footsteps approaching the door. He could make out Molly's speech and someone else's…a deep, masculine murmur.

xxxx

"Sherlock…why exactly are you here?"

"Why? Can't a man pay his friends a visit?"

"No, no…it's just…you said you'd leave and stay away for a while. I thought you'd left the country, moved to Mexico or something but-"

"Mexico?! Why on earth would I go to Mexico?!"

"That's not the point- why are you here?"

"This is excellent tea, by the way. Where did you get it?" Sherlock asked as nonchalantly as possible, deliberately ignoring Molly's inquiries. After all- what was he supposed to say? He himself didn't know why he was here. Because he was lonely? Because he hadn't gotten to show off his deduction skills in quite a while? Because he missed John and was trying to find a replacement in Molly (and a poor replacement at that)? Frankly, he really didn't know and he didn't like not knowing.

"…absolutely ok. I mean if you want to stay here for a while, you could, you know. I understand it can't be easy for you to-"

"I'm sorry. What?" Sherlock interrupted, realizing Molly had kept talking all the way through his musing. Slowly, Sherlock rose from the sofa, picked up his blue scarf and tied it with a quick, trained movement of his hand. "I should probably go now. You're right- I have no reason to be here."

"Wait, Sherlock…no-wait…what?!" was all Molly could manage to stutter, trying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides as he made for the door. Gloved hand on the doorknob, Sherlock turned around, smiling. "Thanks for the tea, Molly, and…everything else."

With these words, Sherlock Holmes twisted the knob, and threw the door open.


	4. Chapter 4

John had seen many things in his life. Bad things, abhorrent deeds, horrendous pain. He had smelt the scent of burning flesh as men were dying on the battle field, screaming in agony, burning alive, having limbs torn from their body by a bomb, being perforated by bullets or stabbed by a knife. John had seen things. Things that had haunted him ever since, every waking second of his life; and when he wasn't awake, they would find their way into his dreams. He never quite seemed to be rid of them, never once completely forgot them. John Watson had seen many things in his life. Bad things. But none of them ever touched him as intensely, shook him to the very core of his being the way the thing he was about to discover would.

xxxx

Sherlock didn't believe in foretelling the future. Logically, it's impossible; trickery and fraud, all of it. But at certain times there were moments for Sherlock Holmes, mostly during the chase of a criminal, when he just _knew _what was going to happen. Whether it was by some deduction made subconsciously, by a scent coincidentally picked up, by a little movement perceived from the corner of his sharp, analytical, calculating eyes, or derived from pure instinct he did not know; all he knew was that opening that particular door at that particular point in space and time would turn out not to be a good idea.

The moment the realization hit, though, the polished doorknob had already slipped out of his hand, beyond his control, exposing him to the hall outside.

xxxx

John jumped back from the door in exactly the right moment to escape its edge, which swung past only inches from his face, grazing the tips of his shoes and finally banging into the wall with a loud clash that echoed off the bleak concrete walls that made up the apartment building.

John's gaze fell on the silhouette in the doorway. The sudden light from inside the flat hurt his eyes after having stood in the dim hallway for so long. Since the light came from behind he couldn't make out the tall man's face but he didn't have to. John would have known this man from a mile away.

He knew every single one of his edgy features, the slightly lined forehead, the curved lips, the shock of black hair framing his face and those cheekbones that gave his face its unique and unconventionally beautiful shape. Peculiar, how John only just realized that now.

John couldn't believe it, it was impossible, Sherlock Holmes was dead- he had seen it with his own eyes. And yet, it was unmistakably him. Sherlock Holmes.

He wanted to scream at him, yell, tell him what a bloody bastard he was, then hug him and cry and laugh and never let him wander off again; but John had grown completely rigid, as if paralyzed by the sudden rush of emotion that had conquered him. There was a feeling he could not quite put a name to…something beyond relief and joy; something more powerful than his rage and fear.

John's face was absolutely expressionless, with only his eyes to betray the wave of emotion and the confusion inside him.

He could see Sherlock's mouth opening but no sound escaped.

There they stood, two best friends, a bare three feet from each other, yet it seemed like a world lay between; neither knowing what to say or do; the situation was so far beyond anything life had ever prepared either of them for.

"John." Sherlock had taken a step towards him; he was now no longer than an arm's length away. Now that he'd moved out of the doorway, John could make out Sherlock's face. It was completely still as always, with only the slight downward curl of his lips bearing witness to the agonizing pang of regret, guilt and longing inside him.

"John" he said again, in that deep grave voice of his.

John Watson started slowly shaking his head, looking at his toes. Without further ado, without having said a word, he turned on his heels and began descending the stairs at something that was almost a run. All he could think of was to get out, to escape this madness, all those emotions he had been trying to hold back for so long. Behind him he heard Sherlock calling his name again, alarmed this time but John never looked back, all he wanted was to _get out_.

xxxx

"JOHN" Sherlock yelled once more, rushing to the handrail, his coat flapping behind him, grasping the rail with both hands, only to see John Watson hurrying down the stairs and leaving the building.

In a blind wave of panic, he made to run after him but a gentle hand on his chest held him back.

"Let him go" Molly whispered.

Panting, Sherlock stared at her in disbelief, then an empty expression occupied his eyes at the shock of the scene that had just taken place right there in the dim and dusty hallway. That's what it felt like: a scene. As if he hadn't been part of it. After all, this couldn't possibly be reality. John would never just walk out on him. Not John. Not _his_ John. He would be happy to know Sherlock wasn't dead. Or was he? Nothing made sense anymore.

There he was, Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, absolutely clueless at what had just happened.

Molly must have brought him back into her flat because the next thing he knew, Sherlock was sitting on her sofa, looking at the world through a trance. Everything had a slightly milky quality to it. The way he saw things, he had just managed to scare off the only friend he'd ever had. His only, his _best_ friend.

"He'll come back, you just startled him" was all Molly had to say in her clumsy attempt to comfort him. Sherlock just nodded absently before stretching out on the sofa and pulling the woolen blanket up to his chin.

When Molly got up the next morning, Sherlock was gone.


End file.
